


Weights & Measures

by MotherOfCups



Series: The Iris Oracle [6]
Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Alternate route, CNtW, Choose Not to Warn, Major character death - Freeform, Prologue, Sequel, fankid, redemption arc
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-15 12:29:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29933445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MotherOfCups/pseuds/MotherOfCups
Summary: “Oh, leave the Wise our measures to collate. One thing at least is certain; light has weight. One thing is certain, and the rest debate. Light rays, when near the Sun, do not go straight.”- Arthur Stanley EddingtonIt's happy ever after for the Lovers, but things aren't quite what they seem. The realm simmers with the threat of uprising, their only daughter refuses to do magic of any kind, and a long-gone foe rises from the dead... again?
Series: The Iris Oracle [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1491047
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> That Ina Garten meme, but reversed - if the canon at the grocery store won’t do, you gotta make it at home. 
> 
> (AKA, this is an alternate Lucio route, baybeeeee)
> 
> If you're confused, check out the Iris Oracle [here](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1491047).
> 
> I can't write without music. Listen along [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1O5N6hReEAPHxyxNFQdLt4).
> 
> Content warnings are added at the beginning of every chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _CW: Aftermath of pregnancy and childbirth, MCD_

Iris was still bleeding when Julian finally permitted Morga to visit. Iris had barely left the bed, barely let anyone else hold her daughter, who seemed to cry endlessly. Though the birth had been relatively easy, the recovery had not; both Julian and Asra were skittish, careful to not let Iris overexert herself, to try too much, too soon. It was no surprise to Morga that the young Oracle was pacing, bouncing the baby restlessly on her slouched shoulders, vibrating like she had been scattered into the ether, unable to pull herself together. 

“Great Gods, Iris.” Morga muttered, arms outstretching. Without a word, without protest, Iris handed her the baby, sitting heavily on the giant bed with a wince. The child whimpered only a little at the change, resuming her quiet, steady whine, a hum like an engine. “You’re exhausted.” 

“She won’t sleep.” Iris’s head was in her hands, bowed so low Morga though she might snap in half – she looked bone-white, bone-thin, bone-tired. “I can’t soothe her. Neither of them can soothe her. She just fusses like this, on and on and on.” 

To Iris’s surprise, Morga shushed her, her voice low, almost a dove’s coo. “Sleep, kid. I’ve got her.” 

For a moment, Morga thought Iris would object, night-dark eyes lifting to hers, indignant, swimming with her exhaustion. But she said nothing, only laying back into the rumpled, sweaty sheets. “Thank you, Morga. Truly.” 

“Of course.” The words had barely left the Jarl’s mouth and Iris was asleep, snoring quietly, curled up in a corner of the big bed. With a chuckle, Morga lowered herself slowly, elegantly, into the rocking chair by the window, the baby in her arms seeming to finally settle, gurgling and cooing. 

Morga brushed a curl way from the child’s eyes – only a week or so old, and with full head of hair – silvery blonde, like her mothers, but her skin was the color of sweet onions, of autumn wheat, neither Julian's nor Asra's. It would be years, years, before they knew who her father was. “Lazuli, little Lazuli.” Morga murmured, saying her name aloud for the first time. “Lazuli Lux Keshet. What fate have the Gods spun for you, I wonder?”

As if her own name were a spell, were a magic she could not yet know, the babe’s eyes fluttered open, her ice-blonde eyelashes like butterfly wings. They were the color of nothing, gray as the light before dawn, as the stars before dusk, as the mind before thought fully forms, flinging out its tendrils like a spider’s web. And that was all Morga saw, the gray, seeping into her like fog, sparkling like the sand on the beaches of Death’s ocean, as she slumped back in the rocking chair, neck lolling, mouth wide, even as her voice echoed through the cavernous bedroom for no one’s ears but the child’s. 

_“Child plucked from the tapestry of time  
Loose threads fisted in her fingers  
A wisp of smoke, a needle of silver  
In which hour will the truth be a knife  
and in which hour will it be a salve?”_

When he found the three of them, Iris still fast asleep in the bed, Julian had no idea how long Lazuli had been howling bloody murder in the arms of the dead Jarl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a prologue, shhhhhhhh. It'll be okay. 
> 
> It's nice to see you, too.


	2. Everybody Loves A Quiet Child

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Orgy - Blue Monday (New Order cover)**
> 
> _CW: brief depictions of violence_
> 
> This chapter was lovingly beta'd by the inimitable [Aria-i-Adagio](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aria_i_Adagio/pseuds/Aria_i_Adagio).

On the morning of January 12th, Nadia 31, Lazuli Lux Keshet was alone.

That is to say, she woke alone, alone in her large second-story bedroom, in a lavish three-story townhome, in the most luxurious, elevated district of Vesuvia. This was not unusual – far from it. Even in the soft starlit hours before winter dawn, the townhouse that served as her parent’s home since before Lazuli was born sat largely empty. Especially this time of year.

Yet, as Lazuli kicked the covers from her four poster bed (an ancient thing of carved cherry wood, once belonging to her mythical great-grandmother Lale, then her grandmother-whom-she’d-never-met Selene, then her also-long-dead aunt Opal, and then her mother, and then her parents) she wanted for nothing: nothing in the material world, at least. The waters of her bath had already been drawn, hot and perfumed as she slid quietly in and watch the sun rise over the Vesuvian bay. Her clothes for the day had been pressed and hung carefully on the hook by the intricate alabaster screen in the corner, purportedly a gift from the Crown Princess of Prakra for her birth; the clothes were a delicate, gossamer things, a long embroidered vest over billowy palazzo pants, probably from the Kirati designer her cousins had been fawning over just last week. Lazuli was just happy that this time, they were pants.

And, as always, as she trudged down the stairs, stumbling into her silk mules, checking, habitually, for the velvet band that held the lapis lazuli stone that she always wore around her neck, even to bed – breakfast was laid out for her, steaming softly under a glass cloche, enchanted to keep warm. Today, soft scrambled eggs on a hearty rye, nestled next to garlicky greens, a sprinkle of aleppo pepper, and – Lazuli snorted – half a chocolate croissant, a crock of butter and barberry jam. Next to it, the note:

_Lessons at 3, come directly after academy. Dinner at the palace, then an engagement at 6. You’ll dress there. Don’t be late, but, by the Arcana, wait for your escort. - M_

Lazuli crumpled it in her fist and tossed it into the embered hearth. As if it hadn’t been hammered into her, the only topic of conversation for the last four weeks, no, longer, the last four months. As if her schedule had deviated in the slightest in the last five years, since she was barely 13. As if she was at all inclined to heed it.

Pointedly ignoring the sweet, Lazuli wolfed her breakfast down standing over the sink, no matter the number of plush chairs around the kitchen table, in the opulent dining room through the gilded double Franc doors. Her bag, unassuming and austere, waited for her on the hook by the front door, the front door that opened to one of the finest lemonstone streets in the Heart, hardly a ten minute walk to the perfumed gates of the palace – but Lazuli only grabbed her bag on her way to the side door that led to the alleyway. An entrance for the servants her parents had not had since she was too young to remember, leading to the dark, damp stairs carved through the cliffside that spiraled up from the Market, from Goldgrave, even from the graffitied Southside… the same door that slid open with an unceremonious clang under Lazuli’s fingers.

Lazuli simply grinned – on the other side of the threshold was a tall (taller than her, even), slight woman, gangly, dark-skinned, and not much older than Lazuli herself. She would have been unforgettable – pierced, shaved eyebrows, dusky purple hair coiled into eight thick bantu knots, the thick coat of gray kohl smeared around her dark eyes, her wide grin revealing a prominent gap between her front teeth – were it not for the heavy black snood and matching jumpsuit that served as fashionable now, for a certain breed of Vesuvian.

“Yer not wearin’ that to play hooky, are ya, Lilu?” She teased with a wink, tossing Lazuli a wad of what looked like old drapes.

“You’re the one who’s late, Sonne.” Lazuli stripped without a thought and stuffed the silks ungracefully into her bag. She stepped carefully into the new clothes – a peasant blouse and pants of the same decades-old floral fabric, leather footwraps, and – most important – a matching Nuru headwrap.

“I got held up.” Sonnet’s voice dropped to a low, soft growl as Lazuli wrapped the cloth around her ice-blonde hair like it was second skin, securing everything in place with a lazuli-tipped pin. Now only her gray eyes showed, almost white against her tanned, freckled skin. “I tink he’s tailin’ me now.”

Lazuli paused, her whole body tensing, iced over in low-simmering panic. “Did he follow you here?” The cloth couldn’t hide the alarm that streaked through Lazuli’s voice as she glanced towards the front door, though no shadows darkened it – not yet. “He’s getting cleverer.”

“I shook him in the Market.” Sonnet’s hand, heavy with rings of all kinds, gold and silver, gemstones and precious jewels, fell to Lazuli’s back, guiding her hastily through the doorframe as it snapped shut behind them. “True to lore. He hates crowds.”

“Good.” Lazuli breathed, grateful for this one victory, so early in the day – and the day ahead of them was long. “Let’s go.” And together, hand in hand, they stepped into the shadows.

*******

The maze of stairs hidden behind the Heart district was a marvel, long-forgotten by the city’s Aristocrata, crisscrossing and ribboning through the cliffs that crowned the city like Alban lace. Climbing the seven thousand steps of the switchback streets stitched into the city’s rolling hills could take you hours if you were going from, say, the Southside to the palace itself; comparatively, those forgotten tunnels felt like a heartbeat, if you had the stamina and knew them well enough not to get lost. Some Southside grannies still told cautionary tales of young lovers who went into the caves and never came out, but by this point, Lazuli and Sonnet knew them like the back of their hands. They arrived at their destination in the blink of an eye, brows only slightly damp.

An old watchtower, crumbling and long abandoned, set into the tall tall lemonstone walls that ringed the city, the long-bleached bones of a forgotten era of war. Lazuli absentmindedly wondered if they had been erected in Sombish’s reign or Lucio’s as Sonnet put her shoulder to the splintering door and knocked, a syncopated beat like a jazz triplet. An eye appeared in a split in the wood, dark as dusk, as if it was only pupil.

“Password?”

“Fuck off, Wednesday.” Sonnet practically growled; with a dark chuckle, the lock clicked, and the two girls whispered inside.

Up the spiral stairs, ancient stones painted over and over with years of graffiti in all languages – _minha bunda é mais forte que feitiçaria, na kraju ćete dobiti svoje, dimana sirahna, dylech chi gael rhywfaint o haul, madha hadath laha, tā zěnmeliǎo, what happened, what happened_ – and then they were in the keep, the astringent smell of acetone and the sweet of linseed and coconut oils flooding Lazuli's nostrils. It was just as derelict as the stairs, the stones not even visible under years and years of paint, the words barely decipherable, a kaleidoscopic palimpsest. In the eye of that kaleidoscope was a hooded figure, kneeling over a stretch of curling paper the length of Lazuli's wingspan.

The kid Sonnet called Wednesday slipped past Lazuli, careful not to touch her as they stepped towards the figure, but she was already standing, pulling back her hood. She was paler than Lazuli, even paler than Lija, her eldest brother; her straight black hair fell only to her ears, her eyes as black as ink as her gaze snapped to the two of them. At the periphery of the paper was a massive backpack, black, probably weighing more than Lazuli had ever carried in her life.

Barely a step away from the woman was a man, early 20s, crouched as if ready to spring, all muscles, nonchalantly smoking a cannabis cigarette. His face was obscured, just like the others, but the cold in his green-gray eyes made Lazuli okay with not seeing his face. Not that she often caught herself staring into his eyes - it was the curved carving knives strapped to each tawny bicep that snagged her gaze each time.

The woman’s eyes swept over the two of them – Lazuli wilted slightly under her gaze, even though she was barely five feet tall. "You're late." Her voice was low, but soft, almost a purr - if Lazuli didn't know that venomous tone, she might have described it as sweet. "Did anyone see you? Were you followed?"

"All they saw was a Heart district aristocrat with her servant." Sonnet code-switched easily as she lowered her snood now, brushing away a stubborn curl that had slipped out of one of her knots – her hands trembled, almost imperceptibly. "No one followed us."

"Perfect." The woman purred in her low voice – her thumb swam up between her teeth as she glanced, one last time, to the scroll, then the bag behind her. After all this time, Lazuli still didn't know her name, only what she called herself – Sunday. Bold Sunday. She was notorious, practically a folk hero in the lower districts. Her tag – BOLD – had been scrubbed from many a Heart and Market and Temple district buildings, the tallest ones, the spires of churches, of academies, slumlord's apartments, far too overpriced for the teeming, overcrowded city. "Let's go."

At this declaration, both Wednesday and the man shifted – Wednesday uncomfortably, the man to standing, flicking his cigarette to the floor with a practiced move, crushing it under his boot, not quite looking at Lazuli.

"Wait." Wednesday bit their lip, clearly torn. They, too, wouldn't meet eyes with Lazuli. "Are you absolutely sure, Sunday?"  


The man grunted softly in assent, and Lazuli suppressed her startle response. The lessons were good for something, she thought to herself, even as she reached up to touch the lapis lazuli stone, the size of her thumbnail, nestled in the nape of her neck. Sunday lifted her gaze to Sonnet, then Lazuli, lifting the pack to her shoulders easily. "Don't have much choice, do we, Wednesday?" She stepped towards the two of them, and even though neither of them flinched, a chill ripple swam down Lazuli’s spine. 

It was now Lazuli remembered how young Wednesday was as they tsked loudly, sneering. "Sunday." They hissed. "This is crazy. Are we seriously doing this?"

"It's the only way." Sunday was eye to eye with Lazuli now. Lazuli stood firm, not letting herself tremble. "Monday knows the palace, and she has the chops. We don't." Her gaze snapped from the two girls to Wednesday – Lazuli swore she saw them tremble, too, under their sister’s withering gaze. "You can still back out if you want to."

Lazuli shifted her weight slightly, from one hip to the other, careful, and cleared her throat. "We should get going." She kept her voice low and demure. "The guard will be changing soon."

"She's right." The man spoke now, his voice gravelly, tight. "We need to move." Lazuli could feel her heart pounding in her chest as he brushed past her, careful not to touch her, same as Wednesday.

They glared at Sunday's side, but slung their own pack over their shoulders. Lazuli, for all her years of tagging with Sunday, Wednesday, and Friday, had never seen Wednesday speak up like this, but she'd never seen them go against their sister's orders, either. With the most ferocious growl they could muster, they glared sidelong at Lazuli and Sonnet, only to fall into rank next to Friday, Sunday kicking their behind gently and slipping behind Sonnet and Lazuli as they all filed down the spiral staircase.

"Tuesday." Sunday murmured, just in the earshot of the two of them. "Run the plan again."

Lazuli cleared her throat, even though it was Sonnet who spoke. "The guard shifts after the seventh bell at the south end of the palace – there's about two minutes where we can slip in undetected via the gardens if we approach from the South tunnels. Then Monday will take us through the secret passageways to the towers."

"Hmmm." Sunday's voice was thoughtful here, her ink-black eyes flitting to Lazuli's. "And how do you know the passageways, Monday?"

"I work with the Countess's daughters." Lazuli's answer came easily to her, readily practiced, and truth enough. "My parents have worked for the Countess since before I was born. They taught me where all the servant's passages are."

"Will there be servants in the passages?" Sunday's voice was still low, but the question was rote. They'd gone through this so many times, giving the same answers, it was almost like an incantation, a spell for soothing, certainty, dousing all their sizzling nerves.

"No." Lazuli replied, touching again the stone at her neck. "There's an all-call staff meeting at seven every morning."

To Lazuli's surprise, Sunday's face crept into a small smile. "I knew we could count on you." She muttered, almost as if to herself – and Lazuli felt herself blush under her headwrap. In the three years that they'd ran together, she'd never shown her face to any of them, aside from Sonnet – an unfortunate precaution, but a necessary one. Sunday, Wednesday, and Friday had all helped her get out of so many sticky situations with the guards – painting in the tunnels, tagging buildings in the Heart and the Market (her own tag, BLUE, was nearly as ubiquitous as Sunday's), but if they knew who she really was – they must have already suspected, knowing who Sonnet was, the equally-notorious RUBY Tuesday, who her mother was – but if they knew who she was, who she _really_ was –

Friday was waiting for them, holding open the tower door, his sharp-green eyes tracking the two of them the whole time as he slipped to the end of their ragtag group. A precaution, if largely symbolic at this point. She had long learned they were safe from the eyes of the Aristocrata in the Heart district, their secrets kept with the servants who may have spotted them, smoking their tobacco cigarettes and cannabis joints, making out or making their back-alley deals.

Their presence didn't spook Lazuli, not like they did when she was younger – the servants were smart, had an inkling, that the kids that crawled these tunnels had things to say that the servants couldn't afford to without risking their cushy, well-paying jobs. These weren't the clothes-washers in Goldgrave, their hands and eyes raw-red, not the underpaid drunkards of the docks, not the prostitutes of the Southside, quick to turn at the mere smell of pentacles; they kept their secrets, and the secrets of others, knowing the true value of those secrets, the value that Lazuli had long-since learned in her short, silver-lined life.

It was only when they'd reached the steps that lead up to the palace gardens that Lazuli felt the full weight of what they were doing – for a moment, a dire, sweet moment, every muscle in her tensed, begging her to turn around and run, not to rip this bloom from the stem, not to break the shell of this egg. As if by instinct, Sonnet, sweet Sonnet, squeezed her hand, risking one furtive glance back – Lazuli took a deep breath, seven counts in, seven counts out, smoothed her thumb over the lapis lazuli at her neck as their troupe mounted the steps and slipped skillfully into the shadows of the garden's edges.

So much of the palace had changed during Nadia's rule, but the gardens had been the same for as long as Lazuli could remember. The hedgerows of camellias, the lilac trees, the secret arches of peony bushes, the fruit trees from every climate, sanguine orange and kumquat and starfruit, lining the wide paved walkways that framed the reflecting pool under the Seat's massive quarters. But these were sights she was remembering, not seeing, swimming in her periphery as she took the lead, the others silent as shadows behind her. The palace loomed like Judgment as bells chimed loudly, seven solemn, tired sighs; and, one by one, the guards disappeared like clockwork into stone, as if they were tricks of the light.

This was the secret – the magicked passageways that only the guards were permitted to know, that only the Chamberlain and the Procurator were privy to. Lazuli knew of them, and that was enough – enough to lead their little group silently through the hedges, the blind spots she had long-since scouted, tracked carefully through years and years of reconnaissance. 

The group hugged the palace wall now, the guard emerging from the stone like smoke as Lazuli grasped the wrists of both Sunday and Friday and leaned back against the wall, letting the web of magic envelope her, sticking to her skin like spiderwebs. They appeared on the other side of the wall in the landing of a spiraling stairwell; Sonnet and Wednesday slipped through the limn just after them, the stone rippling under Sonnet's touch like gelatin.

Sunday let out a long, low breath, almost a whistle, relieved – Lazuli hadn't noticed their leader had been holding it in, just like her, watching with careful eyes as she took in her surroundings: the rough flagstone, the mossy scent of old, porous stone, the dark dark that dilated all of their eyes. She reached out and touched the walls, fingertips ghosting over the uneven stones, as if they couldn't be real. It was Friday who brought them all back, a low grunt in the back of his throat. "We need to keep moving."

Sunday stepped back from the wall, as if breaking from a trance. "Let's go." She murmured, hardly a mew, and the five of them were off, whispering through the staircases like rumors.

Lazuli led now - Sonnet's hand rested on her back, a reminder of what was at stake as Lazuli sprinted up the staircases of her childhood, mind blissfully blank as her feet guided her – left, right, right, straight, another right, left, until they were coiling, coiling, higher and higher, into the tallest tower of the palace.

And then, the doors, double-wide – it was Sunday who shouldered them open aside as they all stumbled onto the balcony. It was wider than Lazuli remembered, in her childhood memories of watching Masquerade fireworks beside her cousins. The five of them stood there now, awed by the city sprawled in front of them like a lover, legs spread wide to her ugliness, until Sunday swung the pack from her shoulders with a thud, louder than a warning shot.

Inside were pigments and paints and sprays, a cacophony of colors. This part, they'd practiced – the colors each would claim: Wednesday and Friday the shadows, blacks and grays and browns in their dusky cans; Sonnet, with her brights, the outline; Lazuli and Sunday, the rest, the most important work. Sonnet's chalk-white was stark against the deep golden lemonstone of the tower, high enough above the city that even the elders bordering on blind could see. Lazuli couldn't say how many hours they'd practiced this same, sprawling design, over and over and over in their tower, and then covering that practice up with their sloppy language practice, misspellings and unaccented words and mistranslated phrases, careful to leave no trace.

And yet, it had paid off – in no time at all, Sonnet stepped back and Wednesday and Friday jumped to attention, moving in tandem, weaving shadows from nothing like twin setting suns. And Lazuli felt electric, the stasis of waiting, the adrenaline, the nerves - her fingers were practically twitching with anticipation as Wednesday tagged her in and Sonnet grasped her palm gently, so softly reassuring that Lazuli's heart ached.

But as she grasped the can of aerated pigments, the shape so familiar, so right in her palm, all Lazuli's nerves fell away, all thought, just the flow of color and shape, forming under her fingers like magic. Her movements were graceful, sure, like the certainty morning sunlight, and perfectly in tandem with the dark-eyed, sylph-soft Sunday, practically gliding up the walls with her skilled, spidery strokes. Lazuli couldn't say if it was moments or hours, days, that they moved together, built together, the design of that curling parchment, so smoothed with the soft oils of their fingers and the reverence of their eyes. When Lazuli stepped back and Sonnet stepped back in, it was only then that Lazuli could catch her breath, wipe away the sudden tears that sparked, sharp, in the corners of her eyes.

There it was – every color of the rainbow, shimmering like a prism. The thick, scrolling script, unmistakable in Vesuvian standard. They'd waffled – should it be in Alba? Prakran, the Countess's mother tongue, the en-vogue language of the aristocrata? Nevivonii, which the royal family was largely known to all speak fluently? But in the end, they wanted everyone to be able to see it, to read it, to speak of it, from the shopkeepers in the Market just opening up their stores to the Thursday market, to the black-clad titans in the Heart and Temple districts, servants just opening the curtains to the new day.

_What happened to Maunde?_

Lazuli started when Sunday laid her hand on her shoulder. "We did it." Lazuli wasn't certain she had ever seen her smile so giddy, sweetly crooked, her dark eyes sparkling and wide.

Lazuli could feel that same rush too - intense pride, satisfaction thrumming through her veins - as Sonnet stepped back. All five of them stared up; the words were taller than any of them, larger and realer and truer than any of them imagined, each of their signatures tucked away and stacked on each other, in order, as they'd agreed: BOLD, BLUE, RUBY, SPY, GOOD.

Then – the deafening, peals of bells from the tower just above them, hummed around them as if it were made of thunder, rattling Lazuli to the bone. She grimaced, one hand over her ear as she lunged for the door – she could see, in the corners of her vision, Friday shouting, Sunday looking back, one last time, Sonnet gesturing all of them on as the alarm continued to ring, over and over.

Lazuli tried to keep her head straight as they flew down the spiraling stairs, taking them two at a time, but the bells scrambled her thoughts, left her legs wobbly and her heart hammering, blood hissing hot through her like steam. Only one thought, not so much a thought, but a screaming need, louder than the bells – _Get out. Get out now._

At the base of the stairs at the belltower, she grabbed Sunday's hand, yanking the group out into the hallways of the Seat's wing, blessedly, blissfully clear by some grace of the Arcana. Sunday's eyes flew wide, and Sonnet's mouth rounded around a shout of dissent, but Lazuli yanked a tapestry aside, stepping through the wall as if it were mist, cold on the bare of her shoulders and midriff. They plunged into an inkier darkness, smelling of must, dust, and the treacle-sharp mingling of wine and vinegar - the wooden pocket door slid open from the wine cellar, the servant's hallway into the butler's pantry, then – the paneled double doors – please, Gods, Lazuli's heart begged, let it be –

The dining room was empty, too – by the plates of half-eaten food, the still-steaming coffee cups stacked atop the books, the schematics, the drafts of bills, that Lazuli had never not seen scattered across this massive dining table, they'd been ushered out at the moment the intruder's bell rang. Lazuli's heart thrummed again, this time with hope – one last secret passage, only a sprint through the front hall, and they were out, out into the Market – but as she zigged towards the doors to the hallways, Sunday wrenched her hand out of Lazuli's.

"Is this...?" She breathed, straightening, her eyes wide as her gaze danced over the wall. "It can't be. I never thought I'd see it this close."

Lazuli wheeled around, confused, not computing – but Wednesday and Friday were just as entranced, glancing around the room like they were spellbound, their eyes wide, disbelieving. Sonnet glanced, panicked at Lazuli, uncertain what was happening. But it clicked for Lazuli as Sunday reached out and so, so carefully traced her fingertips over the painted canvas, touching the face of Iris Selene Keshet, the Oracle of Vesuvia, dressed in gray silks, white velvet, white flowers in her hair, the giant moon-shaped emerald around her neck, her fingers and ears ringed with gold, watching all of them with her warm, dark eyes, her painted lids lowered, the tiniest smile turning on her lips, almost mocking.

"We don't have time." Lazuli gasped, reaching for Sunday's hand, but she wrenched it away, turning to Lazuli with her brow furrowed, indignant. "We can't get caught, we can't – "

"Fuck that." Sunday spat. "We'll never have this chance again." She reached back into her bag, pulling out a can. Lazuli and Sonnet could only stare in shock as she painted one word in thick, sure script right onto the canvas – bright blood red on soft, sacred white, Iris's eyes completely washed away. _LIAR_.

There was a shout, a voice that struck Lazuli cold with knowing, before the doors to the hallway thundered open. "There they are!" All Lazuli could do was freeze as arms encircled her, forcing her wrists behind her back, her nose flooding with the smell of cedar and myrrh. Praetor Bludmila, with another echoing shout, surged into the room with five of his finest, daggers drawn as they lunged for the others.

"Stop!" Lazuli shouted, trying to wrench herself out of the hands that held her, trying to duck out of his grasp, but she knew it was no use, he was too big, she'd never, not once, been able to throw him once he'd gotten his hands on her, in all the times they'd practiced. "Don't hurt them! Please!"

A hand on the wrap around her head, yanking it away – she was crying, tears and snot streaming down her face – all of their eyes were on her, Wednesday's wide, dark eyes narrowing to hatred, Friday's closing with disappointment, and Sunday's, Sunday’s wide with shock as the guards grabbed her and forced her to her knees next to Wednesday and Friday, knives at their back. Sonnet, in the corner, held her shaking her hands up, face crumpled with fear, but the guard recognized her, sheathing the knife quickly, only grabbing her by the wrists.

"I knew it!" Wednesday snarled, livid. "I told you, Sunday. It's her."

And Sunday's eyes broke Lazuli's heart; her brow bowed, dark, thunderstorms of confusion rolled over her face, simmering behind her dark eyes as their gazes met across the room. A large body stepped between them, hands falling onto her face, drawing her gaze up. "Lazuli. Did they hurt you?"

In the portraits Lazuli had seen of Muriel when he was younger, his hair had been black, rain-dark, short, his face clean-shaven. It’d been strange, seeing him like that – in all her memories, he’d looked like this, his hair streaked through with silver, long down his back, held back by thick braids, threaded through with carved wooden beads, a salt-and-pepper beard. Time had not softened his scars – in fact, he had more of them now, from more than a decade of patrolling the provinces, protecting the sacred forest to the south. But it had softened his eyes, lined with years of laughter and worry, warm and concerned as they darted over Lazuli's face, searching for any sign of harm.

"No! No, I'm fine, they – it was me, I brought them here, they're not intruders, they're my friends, I –"

Muriel rounded on them, slow, frightening, and it was then that Lazuli realized it wasn't he who was holding her back – she turned, met the emerald-green eyes of Mäel, towering over her at nearly Muriel’s height, his face shockingly like his father's, the long dark hair, the sharp chin, the straight nose, even the shy smile when Lazuli caught him smiling. But now, his expression was stony, eyes silent, eyes that rushed a heat through her that was wholly, wholly unwelcome at that moment.

In her periphery, movement, a scuffle, a thud – Friday lunged towards Sunday, but Bludmila himself intercepted him with a knee to his chest.

"Stop it!" Lazuli screamed, but Wednesday, with a snarl, spat at her as Friday coughed, wheezed. Muriel grunted with annoyance, and, glowering, knelt down to Wednesday's level – as close as he could, with the near half-meter height difference between them.

"You're lucky Lazuli and Ms. Slick aren't hurt." He grumbled. "The dungeons, you think, Mila?"

"Until Laurel can dispatch someone to formally bring the charges." Bludmila agreed, a brow cocked. "Take them away."

"No!" It was Sunday who shouted now. "Friday! Please!"

Friday looked back at her, once – an expression that Lazuli had never seen on him before, fear and softness, pressing into all of his sculpted features like fingers on clay – and then he lunged one more time, grabbing Wednesday around the waist, practically tackling them to the ground.

With a shout, Sunday's eyes brightened, a fluorescent orange color, and with a snap that Lazuli felt in her bones, Wednesday and Friday disappeared into the ether. Lazuli and Sonnet both gasped, and Bludmila surged forward, catching Sunday with grace as she collapsed, all her energy spent.

He turned to Sonnet, then Lazuli, searching both of their faces. "Did you know she's a magic user?" Lazuli could only shake her head, stunned, Sonnet barely able to squeak out a feeble 'no'. With a sigh, Bludmila lifted her with both hands, his expression soft now. "Made it so much worse for herself."

Only now Lazuli realized the grip on her arms had been released – they smarted, though Mäel had been gentle, and even as she massaged the blood back to her hands, tears still ran down her face, she sniffled as her face crumbled. Sonnet sprinted to her, throwing her arms around her; the tears flowed out of both of them now, and Lazuli resented the way they all looked at them. Bludmila, with pity as he strode out of the hall, Sunday still limp in his arms. Mäel with his stoic, inscrutable eyes, eyes that Lazuli couldn't bring herself to look straight into again. And Muriel – whose gaze fell to the portrait, to the bright red letters that sullied it. It was a long moment, the silence stagnant and unreal, before he sighed heavily, resignedly, turning to the two of them.

"Come with me." He grumbled. "Iris will need to hear of this." And all Lazuli could do was follow, one hand slipping into Sonnet's, the other grasping the stone at her throat, as the door to the hall slammed shut behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said Mondays, but the muse struck
> 
> enjoy~

**Author's Note:**

> Updates every Monday, if you're lucky. 
> 
> I'm [motherofqups](https://motherofqups.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, come share pictures of your cat, or yell at me, it's whatever.


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